The big white house with the picket fence
by dancingnakedincandlelight
Summary: Spencer is married to Ian, who abuses her. She doesn't see a way out until she gets to know Toby Cavanaugh. What will Ian do, when he finds out about Toby? What will Toby and the girls do when they finally find out about Ian's abusive behaviour? - Rated strong T
1. Chapter 1

_The big white house with the picket fence and the immaculate lawn. _

_The big white house with the picket fence and the Mercedes in front of it. _

_The big white house with the picket fence and the lion-head door knocker._

_The big white house with the picket fence and the faceless people._

_The big white house with the picket fence and the faceless husband._

_The big white house with the picket fence. It's yours._

"Babe!" He always uses a pet name when he's mad at you. Exclusively then. You pretend not to hear him.

"Spencer!"

You sigh and look up. "Yes?"

"Why the heck is your stuff all over the coffee table, honey?"

"Because I am working, _honey_." You mock. As soon as you do you can feel your stomach contract violently. Sometimes your temper brings you in trouble. But thankfully he overlooks your misstep.

"Don't you have an office for that?" Oh, no pet name.

"Well, I felt like working in the living room." You can't help it. Your mouth is just faster than your oh so smart brain.

"I wanted to watch TV here."

You decide to push a little further. Maybe you are more suicidal than you thought.

"Do you watch on the table?" You don't know where all this courage suddenly comes from. You are tempted to enjoy it. You nearly feel like yourself again.

"No, but it bothers me." You are surprised that he keeps so calm.

Oh, to hell with it. "I am bothered by a lot of things, too."

"What is that supposed to mean?!" He booms. Now there is the fury you waited the last three comebacks for.

"Nothing." You cave. You always do. Experience taught you to. Every hint of courage vanished with one simple raising of his voice.

He turns off the TV and looks at you. You swallow. He looks angry. But you can't really tell because you think he looks angry all the time.

"No, sweetheart!" Ah, the pet name again. "Let's discuss this for once. What does bother you?"

You see his fists shaking. That always was his telltale. As soon as he'd get mad, he'd start to shake. Like a little hulk. You used to find it amusing. Now, you get scared. So you back off.

"I can work in my office." You murmur and start to collect your stuff. He stays silent but you can feel his gaze on you, burning your skin. Charing your bones. You always knew he had an anger-problem but he'd never lash out on you. You used to think it was romantic. The bad boy only turning soft for you. How incredibly stupid of you.

Now you hurry out of the room. You think about calling your friends, but what should you say?  
_I just got into a fight with Ian about the coffee table. Now I have to work in my office. _Yeah. Big deal. The girls had problems of their own, a life of their own.

Hanna was probably working or drinking. She went into marketing. The charming blonde was surprisingly passionate about her work and always boasted about the clients she wrapped around her little finger. She was especially proud when she made them buy stuff she specifically knew they needed as much as a pig aftershave. The rest of the time she made good use of her money.

Aria works as an english teacher in Philly. Ezra and her got married a few months after high school. You all just wait for her to pop out the first kid. They are probably watching one of them lame french movies and discussing Shakespeare.

What Emily does is not really easy to explain, honestly you don't exactly know. You think it might sound something like "main assistant chief controlling analyst" or something equally important. You never thought that Emily would be the one making all the money. But life goes funny ways. She was really happy, too. She met a girl in college who she's still head over heals for. Shane. She reminds you a lot of Maya. Fun, extroverted, doesn't take most things very seriously. You smile at this. They really complemented each other well. That meant at the moment Emily was either working or fucking.

You know the other girl's lives had their down-sides, too. They all had their little packages to bear.

You know you can't really complain. You and Ian make a good salary. Your lawyer job pays quite the dinero. Your first paycheck made Ian go nuts. It was more than 4 times his wage. You still have the check. It reminds you that he is just a hockey coach and you are one of the best payed attorneys in Boston. You can rip others apart with just your words. You are ambitious, tough, relentless. You don't take no for an answer and you take no shit. You always thrive higher and higher. Push yourself to the edge. You are proud and self-confident. At least you are good at pretending.

You know that the desperate need to proof yourself comes from a deep-seated self-consciousness telling you, you are not good enough. Thank you, Dr. Phil. Maybe that's why you are still with Ian. After everything what happened. After everything he said. After everything he did. Why are you still with him? You ask yourself that everyday. And while you look for that answer you keep standing there, firmly rooted next to your husband. The man who broke you. Time and time again. And then picked you up and glued you back together. That's what you love him for.

**A/N: Hey guys. This is one of my first stories. I plan on updating every week. Of course the more motivated I am the faster the updates will come *shamelessly blackmailing for reviews* Please let me know what you think. I will pour virtual loveballs over every reviewer. -P.Z.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: This chapter is a little more upbeat before the great storm. Enjoy.**

Chapter 2

You slam the kitchen cabinet shut and sigh loudly. Why the hell is there never any creamer? Well, black coffee it is. It makes you feel more badass anyway.

Ian is already to work. Thank god. Lately you get more and more impatient with him. You talk back. He gets mad. Things get ugly. Unconsciously you touch your wrist where you know surprisingly clear imprints of four fingers and a thumb are still visible. Most of the time he's careful to mark you, where only he can see. Of course sometimes he slips. Then you have to think of a story to tell the people at work and hide from your friends, because you know they would see right through your lie. If your friends would find out all hell would break lose. They would see how weak you are. How you let him treat you like shit. You Spencer Hastings. Or rather Spencer Thomas. You grimace.

Aren't you supposed to be the tough one? The smart one? That's what your friends think. Your family. This image, this respect is the only thing keeping you upright. You clinch to this image for dear life. If you would lose it you'd truly be that person who let's her husband beat the crap out of her while crying and whimpering and begging him to stop. You couldn't live with being that person.

But it's already half past eight and you don't have all day to waste with psychoanalyzing yourself, so you chug your coffee and go to work.

Work lightens you up like nothing else. You have a good case. Your client is an asshole, but he pays good money. The case used to be as good as lost, but you found a loop. A miniature loop, as big as an elephant in the eyes of the law. When you found it, you felt your heart racing and adrenaline pumping through your body. You have a spring in your steps. All bruises forgotten. Your colleagues clap your shoulder when you walk through the aisles. Your self esteem goes through the roof. You smile and it is honest. Something that is very rare. Even your secretary, the old bat, seems to crack a small smile, when you all but hopped past her.

You call your friends and tell them, to unpack the party hats. Hanna and Aria are all for it. You don't reach Emily, but Shane tells you, that she's at a conference in L.A.

You meet at the brew. Most of the time you all go out of your way to meet up in good old Rosewood. You've gotten pretty nostalgic with age, even with all the shit that went down in High school.

Aria and Hanna are already there when you come in, talking animatedly with each other. Well, Hanna talks and Aria smiles to herself. You ask yourself what Hanna is so excited about. Probably clothing or men.

"And I said, there are ladies present, and he was like, where?" She giggles madly. "He is like really cheeky, but so hot!"

Men. Of course. You smile.

"Hey guys." You sit down on the chair across from them.

"Hey, John Milton!" Of course Aria needs to make an Al Pacino reference.

"Hey Hotshot!" The blonde yells excitedly and hugs you awkwardly over the table.

"How about a round of champagne? My treat?" You smirk widely.

"Have I ever told you, that you are my favorite person?"

"Sorry, Ezra and I are on a non-alcoholic diet."

Hanna and you roll your eyes simultaneously.

"More champagne for us!" Hanna cheers and waves the waitress over.

The next few hours you laugh and drink with your friends, well Hanna and you drink. Aria of course is so mature and all. Suddenly one thought shoots through your mind.

"Are you pregnant?" It breaks out of you.

Aria blushes deeply and looks down.

"OH MY GOD" Hanna screams out. "YOU DIDN'T TELL US!"

"ssshh!" Aria looks around the room nervously. "I didn't tell Ezra yet. I just found out last week."

"Last week?" You ask. "You had a whole week to tell him. Why didn't you?"

Aria's expression goes soft. "I just want it to be perfect. We tried so long and finally it happened."

"Awww" Hanna coos. "Wait, you tried and didn't tell us?"

Aria rolls her eyes.

You smile at your friend and reach for her hand. "I'm really happy for you guys."

"Wait! We need to tell Emily!" Hanna begins to rummage for her phone.

"She's at a conference, Han." You remind her.

"I know! But this is important!"

She finds her phone and after a few clicks, she holds it to her ear. Silence. Hanna's expression becomes more and more impatient. Then she sighs, puts her phone down and after a few seconds she holds it to her ear again. You watch her curiously.

"Yeah, hello. Here is Pamela Fields. I'm trying to reach my daughter... Yes, I know. But it's a family emergency." Your jaw drops, Aria and you try to grab the phone simultaneously. Hanna jumps up and grins mischievously. "Yes, I'll hold. Thank you very much."

"Hanna!" Aria hisses. "Emily will get a heart attack!"

The blonde rolls her eyes. "She'll get over it."

The blonde stands in the middle of the room with her phone on speaker phone in her hand, grinning goofily. After a while you hear a panicked Emily yelling through the phone. "MUM? Is everything okay? Is Dad okay? What's going on?"

"Hey Emmikins! Guess who's here!" Hanna says in a honeyed voice, totally oblivious to the other girl's distress.

"What the- Hanna?"

"Yup! Listen, I have great News!"

"Did you call my OFFICE with a FAMILY EMERGENCY and pretended to be my MUM?"  
Oh no.

"Yeah. It's really hard to get a hold of you." Not a hint of remorse there. You think Hanna would be a great assassin.

"You can't just do that, Hanna! That was a really important meeting! It's a make or break moment here and I just ran out of the room! I don't know what my boss is- "

"ARIAISPREGNANT!"

Silence. "What?"

"Aria, you know, the tiny one with the bad taste in clothing?" "Hey!"

"Yes, I got that part, Hanna. I just didn't understand the incoherent screaming part that followed."

"Aria . Is . Preeeegnaaaant ."

"Oh my god."

"RIGHT?"

"Wow! That's freaking amazing! Are the girls there?"

"Hey, Em." You and Aria say in unison.

"Aria! I'm so happy for you! That calls for celebration! Why are you guys together anyway? Did I miss something?"

"Yep. Spencer earned a lot of money beating justice." Hanna grins.

"Ehm. great, Spence."

You laugh. Emily always was the one with the love of justice and all that was right. But for you she tries to pretend that attorneys aren't the devil's representatives on earth.

"Thanks, Em." You answer sweetly.

"Guys. Thanks for calling me. Although I'd prefer the next time to be without the panic attack, Hanna." The girl in question just rolls her eyes again. "I really gotta run now. We talk soon! Congrats again, Aria. Love you all!"

Hanna hangs up looking very smug. "See? She even thanked me for calling!"

You shake your head and pull out your own phone. 7 missed calls from Ian. Damn. You look at your watch. 10 PM. Double damn.

"Guys. I gotta go. Ian doesn't even know where I am."

"Alright. Greet lover boy from us!" You notice that Hanna slurs. You guess the second bottle champagne was a bit much for two people.

"Will do. Bye! Take care. All three of you!" You wink and stumble out the door.

The cold air of the night hits your face the moment you leave the brew. You walk home thinking about suing the city. Who the hell built the pavement this wavy? Morons.

Your phone rings again. Ian. You don't take the call. He will be mad like hell anyway. Bloody Ian. You think about trying to explain the reason for your celebration to him, but who are you kidding? Ian wouldn't even understand the letter head. You chuckle. Poor dip shit. He'd be a good housewife, though. You should suggest that. He doesn't contribute greatly to the salary anyway.

You can't really remember why exactly you let somebody with the intellect of a demosponge tell you what to do. You decide that this is going to stop now.

Determined you stagger to the cab rank and watch the city of Rosewood fly by while you draw closer to your white house with the picket fence and your stupid husband.

**A/N: Oh, what will happen with our drunk Spencer determined to show her husband who has the pants on? Prepare for some drama, folks...**

**P.S.: Extra loveballs for everybody who gets the movie quote in the upcoming chapter.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**A/N: Go Spencer!**

When you come home he is waiting for you. Sitting on the couch. A perfect picture of collectedness. You know it's only a matter of minutes until the heat makes the picture melt and crumble.

"Hey, wivey!" You yell and chuckle, imagining Ian in an apron.

"You are drunk." His voice rumbles dangerously.

"I'm not drunk. You're just blurry." You laugh at your own joke and walk into the kitchen. "I'm hungry. Do we have anything?"

You didn't even notice that he stood up and followed you. You didn't even see the picture's edges roll up. Of course if you were sober you would have noticed. If you were sober you wouldn't even need to look to notice. And you would do your bloody best to stop the picture from crumbling. But you're drunk as fuck so the hand grabbing you roughly at your shoulder comes out of nowhere.

You get whirled around and suddenly you look into cold grey eyes. You wait for the fear but there is only fury. How dare he grabbing you like that?

You look him straight in the eye and flip his hand off your shoulder.

"I'm trying to cook here, demosponge."

You branch off and start rummaging through the kitchen cabinets. Then you remember that you came here with the aim to finally put your foot down. You turn back around and wave the melon spoon in Ian's face very determinedly. He stares silently at you, disgust evident in his eyes.

"That reminds me, Spongebob." You slur. "I'm not gonna let you do this anymore. I earn more than you and you're a housewife."

Somewhere in the sober part of your mind, you know that you just kicked the bull in the balls and now you are going to feel it's rage. But the drunk part of you doesn't listen, because the drunk part of you is 10 feet tall and invulnerable.

Ian lifts his eyebrows. He stands in front of you. Posture completely relaxed. In his eyes you can just read something that looks like anticipation. Or you could read it, if you would just look.

"I think I'm gonna buy you an apron. One with -" BAM!

You don't really feel his fist, you just feel your head explode and see the floor coming closer. With a dull thud you hit the kitchen tiles.

"NOW YOU LISTEN TO ME, YOU BITCH!" His voice is so loud, that his vocal cords scratch, high tones mingling with his deep voice.

You try to lift your head, but it's too heavy. So you just let his voice rage over you.

"You don't FUCKING talk to me like that! No bitch talks to me like that! Do you understand?"

You know you are supposed to answer. But your tongue feels too thick and is glued to the back of your throat. You have a metallic taste in your mouth.

"I ASKED IF YOU UNDERSTOOD!"

You ask yourself if the neighbors can hear his voice. You think it's loud enough for the whole street to hear. But if they hear him, they decided to pretend otherwise.

A foot comes into your view. You see that it wears heavy working boots. The sick bastard changed his fucking shoes for you. How thoughtful. In foresight you roll your body together as tightly as you can. You hold your breath.

Then you feel his foot hit your ribs. You suppress a moan. Again. It's so fucking painful. Every fucking time. You curse your weak body, that it didn't build up some kind of stamina against Ian's treatment.

You fail to notice the kicks against your ribs subside. How stupid of you. You feel your head being yanked back at your ponytail. Reflexively you close your eyes.

"Look at me, Sweetheart." Ian whispers. His voice cold as ice but with an excited edge in it.

Reluctantly you open your eyes, just because you know he wouldn't care to take his sweet time to make you do it.

You look up to his face, you think he looks handsome. His features are sharp, his expression determined and hard. Then you ask yourself if you might develop some kind of Stockholm-Syndrome. If you would analyze your behavior in the slightest you would realize that you already suffer from it.

"Good girl." He all but snarls. "You earn more than me? You know why? Because I let you. I let you walk out this door every morning so you can play lawyer. So you can stroke your ego and tell yourself that you are worth something. But I know better. I know that it's just the illusion that keeps you upright and I know that you don't really believe it yourself. Because I am the only one who sees your real self, who sees what a weak piece of shit you really are."

The cold grey of the stainless steel that were his eyes seems to melt with each sentence. The coldness vanishes, banished by something resembling joy. He looks nearly kindhearted, as if he was gracious enough to share his wisdom with you.

For the first time since he hit you you dare to open your mouth and it is one single word that makes it through your swollen lips.

"Bullshit." You spit out. Stupid. Not only because you know the consequences of your word but because you know that it's a lie. Deep down you feel that he is right.

One single word that turns the warm grey fog into a raging storm of fury. BAM! He slaps you with the back of his left hand, his right hand still having a firm grip on your pony tail.

"DON'T YOU DARE TALKING BACK TO ME, YOU STUPID CUNT! I CAN DESTROY YOU! The only reason you can go out and get pissed with the slut-club is because I have the MERCY to let you!"

His voice becomes sweet and gentle. "But maybe I let the reins slack a bit. Don't you think, baby? Hm? I know it's my fault, but you seem to have forgotten who is rider and who is horse. Maybe I should remind you, huh love?"

He lifts his hand and strokes your blood-smeared cheek. That's the moment when cold, icy fear settles in your gut. He never was like that when he hit you. Sure he'd get mad, but he'd vent his anger on you and that was that. You'd lick your wounds, go to bed and everything would go back to normal. This display of affection makes you feel sick in a way that is totally new to you.

"I want to help you, my darling. Once I reminded you where your place is, we can stop with these ugly quarrels, don't you think?"

He smiles at you encouragingly. You let the meaning of his words sink in and feel your eyes go wide. No. Fuck. No. You try to crawl backwards but he still has your pony tail.

He shakes his head. "Ah-ah-ah. Don't do that, babe. I just want us to function again. To be how we used to be. I am the only one, who's trying to save this marriage."

He lifts his hand again to stroke your fear stricken face. This time his thumb lingers on your split lip and runs over it. His sweat burns in the wound when he touches the split. You jerk. You see the corners of his mouth twitch. Sick son of a bitch.

"Till death do us part, Mrs. Thomas." He whispers and then his mouth is on yours. You feel his tongue force it's way into your mouth and you are tempted to bite it. But you are still frozen in shock and you have to admit you simply don't have the guts. So you let him.

He loosens your hair tie and runs his fingers through your hair. He leans forward. You feel his body on yours. You feel your skin crawl. You think you might puke. No. This can't be happening. Not to you. Not to Spencer fucking Hastings. _Do something you stupid bitch!_

You touch his chest and push. "Ian. Stop." You say against his rough, demanding lips.

He doesn't react. So you turn your head and push harder. "Ian! What the fuck are you doing?"

This time he reacts. He pulls back and cocks his head. He looks at you with a bemused expression.

"Whatever the hell I want." He smiles and the scary thing is, that this time it reaches his eyes. It's a real smile. He looks – free.

Then it dawns on you that this is who he is. This is not Ian snapping. This is Ian being himself for once.

You realize that now would be the perfect moment to panic. But somewhere in your champagne and fear hazed brain you understand that you have to be smart about this. He can overpower you without a problem even when you're sober, so you can't work with strength. Cleverness is more your metier anyway. And what would be more suited than the trick women used for hundreds of years?

"Babe." you whisper. You force yourself to sound lovingly. "Babe. I can't."

"Yes you can and you will" He murmurs absently, while he bites your neck particularly hard.

You bite your tongue so you don't cry out of pain.

"Babe. I want to." He pulls back abruptly. You could swear that you see his eyes darkening disappointedly.

"But I can't. You know why."

He looks you over sceptically. His eyebrows scrunched together. He doesn't believe you. So you go all out. You stroke his cheek with a treacherously shaking hand and lift your head so your lips brush his ear. You shudder. You hope he thinks it's from arousal not disgust and loathing.

"Babe, I'd love to fuck your brain out. Believe me. But it's just an inconvenient time of month."

You feel your stomach heaving from your own words, but it's your only chance.

He stays silent. You see his jaw twitch.

"How about we go to bed and I give you a shoulder rub?"

Again silence. You wait. Then you see his shoulders sag a bit. You heart lifts with relief.

He stands up and walks out of the kitchen.

"Clean yourself up before."

**A/N: Pheeew! That was close, Spence. How long will you be able to dodge the bullets I shoot at you? *diabolic laughter* **

**I know I'm a day late, but in my defence: I'm at a congress in Berlin. So I'm a busy bee.**

**Did you find the reference? What did you think? What should happen next? A loveball for your thoughts.**


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The sun shines in your face and you moan disapprovingly. Damn! Where does this bloody headache come from? You lift the blanket over your head to remain just a few minutes more in blissful nothingness. But soon you have to lift this epitome of safety again to catch fresh air. Tiredly you run your hand over your face and wince. What the- Why does your face feel like a car ran over it? Your mind feels like it is filled with thick, grey fog. Right. You celebrated with the girls. Aria is pregnant! But that doesn't explain the condition of you face. As you stretch you wince again at the pain that shoots through your ribs. You lift your shirt and see beginning bruises in an angry purple-red. You sigh knowingly. Ian.

You stand up and moan in pain. You limp to the bathroom and position yourself in front of the full-length mirror. Your face looks like a bear tried to eat it and spit it out again. Repeatedly.

You undress yourself as fast as your hurting body lets you and take a careful peek at your reflection. Holy shit. Your body is covered in bruises everywhere. Your ribs, your wrists, your breasts, your collarbones, your hips, your thighs. Thoughtfully you trace the bruises on your inner thighs.

You notice the fog clearing slowly. Bits and peaces of the evening flash through your mind like a poorly done flicker book by a cruel child. You close your eyes and swallow hard. No. Please no. You whirl around and fall to your knees in front of the toilette. You gag violently. After the third heaving of your stomach the champagne makes an appearance again.

When everything is out you curl your naked sweating body up on the cold bathroom tiles. How could he do this to you? How could the man you once would have trusted with your life be so cruel and so vicious? And how did you never see who he was? What he was? Most importantly: What are you going to do?

You can't go to your friends or your family because they would see. But you can't stay here. Not with him. Not after what he nearly did.

You feel broken and dirty, so you crawl into the shower and lift yourself up just enough to reach the tab_._ There, lying under the hot steam on the shower floor, you finally feel safe enough to cry. And cry you do. You sob hysterically but it doesn't make you feel any better so you scream. You scream so loudly you feel like your lungs might burst. You think that your neighbors will ignore it anyway. Your fucking selfish, cowardly neighbors.

Of course not as cowardly as the way out you chose to take. You scrunch your face up in disgust as you think about how you pretended to be aroused just to get Ian off you. You know it worked and that it probably was a smart move since you know you wouldn't have stood a chance against him if you'd just have tried to stop him physically. But the way you chose still makes you cringe. Your own words echo in the back of your mind

_I'd love to fuck your brain out._

You let the self-loath wash over you. Ian was right. You are a worthless piece of shit.

You think about ending it now. You thought about it thousand times before, but never has the possibility appeared so real and so inviting. But you think that would be the ultimate cowardly way out. Before you kill yourself you kill Ian first.

When there are no tears left, your lungs burn from the screams and your skin is red from the boiling hot water, you leave the shower and get ready. You call your work and tell them that you take a leave of absence for an indefinite period of time. You feel like you watch yourself as you pack your bags.

Your mind is totally blank as you leave your white house with the picket fence and your twisted husband.

You drive to a hotel. You drive far. Nearly two hours go by until you finally choose to stop. You know, that Ian will know, that you don't have anywhere to go. So you are careful to not make it any easier for him to find you.

When you enter the hotel you tell them, your name was Jane Milton. It makes you feel not as pathetic and you feel a little closer to your friends. Judging by the look the receptionist gives your swollen, beaten up face, she probably knows it's not your real name. But she just gives you your room card and explains the way to your room, to the restaurant and to the spa area. You don't think you really feel like wellness but you nod and make your way upstairs to the sanctuary of your own room.

You have 5 hours until Ian comes home from work. 5 hours until he'll know that you're gone. You think about disconnecting your phone, but you don't want your friends to get worried if they should try to reach you.

You let your hurting body plop down on the king-size mattress and just lay still. You try to clear your mind from the disturbing, painful images that keep harassing the inside of your eye lids. You don't want to think. You just want a break. A few blissful moments of self betrayal where you pretend that none of this is happening. Your gaze shifts to the minibar. You crawl to the end of the bed and stretch your body to open it. Vodka, rum and other hard stuff fills the inside of the little plastic piece of bliss. The only thing bothering you is the disappointing size of the bottles.

You use the landline to order a bottle of scotch at the reception. A few moments later it knocks on the door and a boy who doesn't look a day older than sixteen hands you the enticing beverage. You pay for it and tip him. Then you close the door and eye the bottle warily. It's probably not very healthy to drink when you're fucked up but you don't really care. You don't think of the implications, of the shovel of weakness you are about to add on the little mountain of self-loathing.

You hastily unscrew the bottle and don't even bother to look for a glass. You set the scotch to your lips and let the burning fluid numb your mouth, your throat. You sigh when you feel the warming sensation in your stomach and the sharp edges of the painful pictures soften. With each sip they get more blurry, the weight you didn't even realize was resting on your chest lifts and you feel relaxed for the first time in ages.

You stand up shakily and walk to the balcony door. You struggle with the door handle and when it finally opens there was too much force in your pull so you tumble to the floor. A bit of the scotch spills on your expensive white blouse and you hit your back on the edge of the desk. You're sure that it hurt but you don't feel the pain. In fact you don't feel any pain at all. Not from Ian's treatment yesterday and not from the emotional firework of pain and disgust and desperation that followed. And it's so freeing. You almost smile. Almost.

You work your way back to your feet and step out on the balcony. The sight of the bright midday-sun disturbs you for a second. You don't know if it was the scotch or the emotional struggle but you felt like it was night. You think about some stupid cheesy comparison between your soul and the night but then you shake your head at yourself. Your soul is too weak, too pathetic to claim to be comparable to something as beautiful and powerful as the night.

You sit down on one of the two sundeck chairs and let the sun burn your pale face while you drink forbidden liquor out of the bottle. When you wake up, you're not sure what woke you. The shivering of your cold body or the persistent ringing of your mobile phone. The sun is gone. Your five hour's grace is over. Your head is pounding from drinking in the sun and you feel sick. But it was worth it for buying you a few hours of dreamless sleep, before Ian starts to hunt. You know that's exactly what he'll do and you know that you won't be able to sleep with that knowledge.

You wonder how long it will take until he finds you. How long until you are forced to go back to that cruel stage play that calls itself marriage. You could just run farther. So far that even Ian can reach you. You ask yourself if such a place exists. Probably. It's not like Ian is the CIA. But you would have to cut the cords to everyone you know. You don't think you could stand to be alone with yourself for the rest of your life.

The ringing subsides and you throw a skeptical glance in the direction of your room. You wait. Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen. _Rrrriiiing_. You close your eyes and decide to turn it on mute. You go inside and shiver with the sudden warmth enveloping you. You look at your phone. Two missed calls. You must've woken with the first call. You mute the accused device and decide to take a shower to chase away the cold and the new found stress due to Ian's evident discovery of your absence.

When you stand under the hot water jet you ponder once again what to do. You feel like bait, sitting here waiting for Ian's inevitable appearance. But what where the alternatives? Divorce. You grimace a cruel smile at that. Sure. Divorce the sick bastard who nearly raped you last time you tried to stand up for yourself. Be heroic and shit. Be all griffendory. But we all know when comes to it, when things get ugly, you would safe your own damn skin. You are a Slytherin after all. But even Slytherins wouldn't go back and be all happy family just because you're scared shitless of your own bloody husband.

You think about killing him again. That would probably the Slytherin way out. Just a bit of botulinum in his coffee and a half eaten 3 months old peace of meat in the fridge. Ooops. Food Poisoning. How unfortunate. You grin at that and part of you chuckles with glee but another part of you is horrified for him. Worried. You hate yourself for it but you can't help it. He is your husband and you had good times together. The moment you think that you feel like punching yourself in the face. Hard. What the fuck is wrong with you? The twisted bastard nearly fucking raped you. Shall I spell it out for you? R. A. P. E. D. There. You get it now?

You lean your forehead against the tiles and close your eyes. Violently trying to suppress the antagonistic dialogue in your head. You just can't help your feelings. Yes, you hate Ian. And yes you would give anything to get away from him, but you just couldn't harm him.

You leave the shower and while you dry yourself off you hear a knock on the door. You drape yourself in your towel and walk to the door. You look through the peep hole. It's the sixteen year old hotel boy. You open and just poke your head out, aware of your naked bruise covered body.

"Yes?"

"There are flowers for you, Miss Milton." He brings a big bouquet of red roses into your sight and you feel ice building in the peek of your stomach. You take it with shaky hands.

"Thanks." you rasp out and close the door without tipping him.

You just stare at the flowers for a few minutes before you bring up the courage to read the card.

_My love,_

_I'm so sorry we fought. I lost my temper and for that I'm truly sorry._

_Please forgive me and come home. _

_Your loving husband_

_-I_

While you stare at the the cark your mind wanders to your wedding day. How handsome he looked in the black suit and the black bow tie. How happy you were. How happy you both were. A month later was the first time he hit you. Just a slap, nothing severe. Ian was crushed. He sent you flowers for a week. Apologized multiple times a day. Cried like a baby. Promised you that it wouldn't happen again. Told you how much he loved you and that he just couldn't loose you. This lasted for three whole months and then you got into a fight about the garage. This time he hit you with the fist and apologized for two whole weeks. It dawned on you then, that this might not be the last time Ian hurt you. This point was the exact moment where you should've left. But you didn't. Because you loved him and he loved you and you were happy. Because he told you that he was sorry and that it was just because he loved you so much that his emotions were so out of control around you. Because he said that you were the only person he wanted to let in - was able to let in. That she was the only person he let his guard down with. So when you hurt him verbally it just hit him so hard that he couldn't control himself.

Your black eye healed and Ian asked you to have a baby. You said no, you said you weren't ready, you wanted to finish law school first but deep down you knew you didn't want to bring a child in an abusive relationship. That was the first night you spent in the hospital. Ian held your hand while they stitched you back together. His hand was soft and comforting. You slept in his arms after that.

Countless of times this was the reoccurring scheme. He didn't even go all out with this one. Just the same mindless excuses like every fucking time. Just that this time was different. So very different. But he doesn't get it. Or he pretends not to.

But most importantly: How the hell does he know where you are?

Interesting though that he knew but decided not to come and get you. He gives you the chance to come home by yourself, to preserve some of your dignity by pretending that it's your own free decision. Maybe that's his I'm-sorry-present.

You ponder what to do. You have exactly three possibilities: You can go home, you can stay here and wait for Ian to come and get you or you can run farther. But you have a job and family and friends so running is really out of question and what good would it do to stay here and wait for Ian to carry you home like a child. There really is just one choice you can make. So you make the choice you struggled to make the whole time since you were here.

You take the roses, throw them in the trash can near the desk, get dressed and pack your bags. You don't really know if you already are sober enough to drive but at least the spinning stopped so that's a good sign. And you can't exactly call a friend to drive you home or a taxi for a two hour drive and leave your car here just to have to come back and get it.

You glance at the scotch bottle and notice that it's more than half empty. You sigh in defeat. Ian will have to wait until tomorrow. You look down and realize you are still wearing just a towel. You get dressed in a night shirt and a comfortable pair of boxers which used to be Ian's.

You lay your head on the pillow and try to get some sleep. But the weight of your decision makes your mind spin. Although the sick feeling of self-loathing lessened. The inner voices screaming at you for being so weak are quiet for know. Waiting for you to fail, to cave instead of holding onto the decision. You can feel the disapproving anticipation and judgement drop from the silence.

You close your eyes and empty your mind. You concentrate on your breathing and your heart beat. Boomboom. Boomboom. Boomboom. After a while you drift off.

The next morning you get up, throw on some clothes, grab your keys and head to the reception desk to check out.

"Thank you, Mrs. Milton. Here is the receipt of the credit card bookings you made."

She hands you the receipt for the room and the scotch. It was booked on your credit card yesterday at 12:16 AM. The credit card to an account you share with Ian. That's how he knew. How fucking genius of you. Jane Milton my arse. Well it's not like living in a hotel for the rest of your life would've been an option. You would have to go back some time anyway.

You crumble the receipt on your way out and climb into your shiny black Mercedes. You are going to drive to your white house with the picket fence and your soon-to-be ex-husband.

**A.N.: Hey guys, I'm sorry for the delay. I hope the long chapter made up for it. I had a term paper to do and it got pretty ugly. Let me tell you. If you ever meet my professor tell him I send Ian after him. **

**However, some people asked when Toby will make an appearance and I told them this chapter, but as you can see I didn't really get to it, so your fragile little shipper hearts will have to wait just one tiny chapter more. I swear. Pinky Promise. **

**I hope you enjoyed it. I'm kinda unsure of this chapter because it was a lot of monologue. So please let me know what you think. Was it okay? Was it horrible? **

**Loveballs, P.Z.**


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